


To The Nines

by Agent_24



Category: RWBY
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Confessions, Dress Up, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Original Character(s), fairgameweekend2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: James suspects Jacques Schnee is up to no good, so he asks Qrow to play spy. Problem is, he asks that Qrow do this in a suit, and on the arm of a particularly handsome captain.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 25
Kudos: 72





	To The Nines

**Author's Note:**

> Music:
> 
> [Bloom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYN4YPAFfuo) by RKCB, [Summer Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VgV5aZa8as) by Chelsea Cutter, and [Easy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MoSmX1xNnAQ) by Mac Ayres
> 
> This is a collab with my darling @seasomen on Tumblr and Twitter! Please check out their work!! <3

“You want me to  _ what?” _ Qrow demands, high pitched.

James sighs and rubs his temple. “I told you he would make this difficult,” he says.

Clover chuckles. Qrow doesn’t see what’s so funny. And Clover looks awful pleased for someone who just got the worst mission assignment possible. “You  _ are  _ the best person for this, Qrow,” he says gently. 

“I’m really not,” Qrow insists. “In fact, I’d argue that I’m the  _ last  _ person you should’ve selected for this.”

“You told me you were a spy for years.”

“As a  _ bird,” _ Qrow exclaims. “I spy on people from trees, Cloves, not…” he waves his hand in exasperation, “stuck-up fancy balls. I’m good for sneaking into shady places no one else wants to be in to start with.”

Clover raises an eyebrow, which is unfair, because he’s attractive when he’s being obnoxious, which makes Qrow want to do stupid things, like agree to attend a gala. Clover muses, “There aren’t many places in Atlas shadier than Jacques Schnee’s office.”

Qrow looks helplessly at James. “Back me up here,” he begs.

James laces his fingers together and clears his throat. Qrow wants to strangle him. It could not be more clear that James is about to laugh. “Unfortunately,” he says, “Clover’s right. The only person more qualified for this than you is Winter, and…well. Let’s just say I’m not eager to send her into that house. In any case, it’s much easier for a bird to hide in an office than a person.”

“And how am I supposed to get to this office unnoticed?”

“Jacques has unbelievably high ceilings,” James says.

There’s a little twinkle in his eye that means there’s a story there. Qrow would bet James had already attempted communicating with Jacques the open and honest way before resorting to this (knowing James, it had probably included a threat or two), but had ended up with no results, which lead them to their current position of asking him to put on a suit.

“I don’t even  _ have  _ a suit,” Qrow complains.

“You leave that to me,” Clover says, plainly smug.

At Qrow’s terrified expression, James adds, “The academy provides any supplies Huntsmen might need for missions. That includes clothes. Clover just has a tailor he’s partial to.”

“You’ll love her,” Clover says reassuringly, and pats Qrow’s shoulder. “I took you off any missions scheduled for tomorrow, so be ready to go get fitted at ten.”

“This is a bad idea,” Qrow says again, weakly, but Clover just tosses him a playful salute and makes his exit.

There’s a long moment where the office is silent. Qrow turns back to look at James, who only neatly folds his hands across his desk and raises his eyebrows. Finally, Qrow says, “Jimmy. Buddy. I know we’ve had our differences, but isn’t this a little far?”

James chuckles. “This isn’t a punishment, Qrow,” he corrects, then turns somber. “I’m beginning to suspect that Jacques isn’t letting my possession of the mines go. If I’m right, I want to know what he knows, who he’s communicating with, and if that’s going to be a cause for concern with respect to Amity Arena. And that means this has to stay within our little…” he pauses, wrinkles his nose.

“Brotherhood?” Qrow offers, snide.

“I’d prefer not to call it that,” James admits, “But it needs to stay on a need-to-know basis, yes. And of the people within the know, you have to admit you’re best suited to the quieter aspects of breaking and entering.”

“You make me sound like a real upstanding guy, y’know that?” Qrow drawls, then sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “It’d be easier if I just snuck in, James.”

“And on the off-chance that you’re discovered,” James points out, “it’ll be easier to explain your presence if you’re wearing a suit. And have an invitation.”

“I  _ don’t  _ have an invitation.”

“You’re Clover’s plus one,” James amends, which makes Qrow blush for some ungodly reason, “and that’s close enough.”

Qrow sighs again. “Fine,” he mutters. “Fine, but if this goes sideways, don’t blame me.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” James says, attention already diverted back towards paperwork projected above his desk. A pause, then, “I trust Clover’s judgement, and he thinks very highly of you.”

That’s a weird thing to say, considering James has known him longer. But that would mean James is teasing him, and  _ that’s  _ just…just ridiculous, and the concept floors Qrow so much that he just says, “Ah, shut up,” and quickly takes his leave.

* * *

Qrow sticks his hands into his pockets and throws Clover a skeptical look. The shop in front of them seems large for a boutique, and the mannequins in the display window are wearing suits and gowns that look like something straight out of a fashion magazine.

Clover looks back at him innocently. “What?”

“You said this was a tailor,” Qrow accuses.

“She is!”

“Clover, Aurora Mal is a _ fashion designer.” _

Clover blinks in surprise. “You know of her?”

Qrow flushes. “I did travel with Weiss for months, you know,” he mutters. Now he blinks, then exclaims, “Were you banking on my ignorance of Atlas fashion?”

“No!” Clover insists, too quickly, then abruptly starts for the door. “Of course not. Let’s head on in, shall we?”

Qrow gapes at him, then rushes to follow. “I have _style,_ ” he objects.

“You do,” Clover agrees, so openly that it immediately soothes any insult Qrow may have felt. “It’s just not like—”

“Clover!” a woman calls, immediately abandoning an older employee, dressed all in green, who’d been trying to show her inventory updates. Her dark braids are interwoven with blue and pink, a pencil tucked behind her ear and a pair of round glasses sitting low on her nose. She has a bubbly air about her that implies she either daydreams constantly or is in desperate need of a nap, or perhaps both, and her clothes are such a splatter of color that Qrow’s tempted to think it’s a dye job gone wrong. She kisses each of Clover’s cheeks, then says, “Sweetheart, you’ve arrived just in time. I finished your alternations barely an hour ago. Is this your partner? Oh, he’s darling!”

“Uh, we’re not—” Qrow starts.

Clover elbows him hard, smiling brightly at Aurora while Qrow grunts and tries not to double over too noticeably. “Isn’t he, though?” Clover chimes.

“Absolutely!” Aurora beams and, apparently forgetting about Clover, takes Qrow’s hands and pulls him into the center of the room, up onto a pedestal in front of three grand mirrors. “You need him fitted for the Schnee Ball, no? Do you want matching colors? Red suits him so nicely, though. Stand up straight for me, doll, let me have a look.” Before Qrow can respond, Aurora puts one hand on his chest and the other on his back and forces him upright. While Qrow’s mouth hangs open in speechlessness, she’s already lifting his arms and circling him. “You’re both so tall, poor Merriweather has the  _ worst  _ time measuring Clover and James, and now here’s another. Clover, honey, you’ve found a  _ gem!  _ Look at his figure!”

Qrow glances over his shoulder and shoots Clover a  _ help me _ look. Clover, the unhelpful bastard, just grins, winks, and takes a seat on the bench set aside for what Qrow can only assume is ogling purposes.

If he got any more embarrassed, he might as well sink right into the floor.

“Well?” Aurora asks him suddenly.

Qrow turns back to her, embarrassed further at having missed the question because he’d been so focused on Clover. The floor was looking more inviting by the minute. “Say again?”

“What do you like to wear to such events?” Aurora repeats. “We can’t very well get started if I don’t know what you like to wear.”

“Uh…a suit? I don’t usually go to—”

“Wonderful! I have a few things in mind, let me see, we don’t want anything too formal, no, I think something roguishly pretty would suit you best. A low neckline for certain…” Aurora’s voice drops into thoughtful muttering, more to herself than to Qrow.

“Uh,” Qrow tries, only to startle silent as Aurora suddenly shouts, “Merriweather!” 

A short woman—dressed all in blue this time—pops out from a door near the register, the little room overflowing with fabrics. “Yes, dear?” she asks.

“Come take this gentleman’s measurements, will you?” Aurora says almost absently, stepping away towards the counter and taking a notebook out from one of the counter drawers. “Clover, darling, come take a look while I sketch out some things.”

While Clover gets to his feet, Merriweather shuffles out, but only gets halfway across the room before she gets a good look at Qrow, turns and marches back into the sewing room, and returns with a stepping stool. “You’re quite tall,” she says a bit tiredly, and Qrow imagines that’s especially true for someone who looks less than five feet high, but that, he decides, is a thought best kept to himself.

While Merriweather measures and writes down numbers on a tiny little notepad, Qrow glances back to see what Clover and Aurora are doing. Aurora’s scribbling furiously on her sketchpad and occasionally sliding it over for judgement, and Clover’s leaning against the counter, arms folded there and one ankle crossed over the other. He points at one design and makes a comment Qrow can’t hear, then glances up.

Their eyes only meet for a second before Qrow turns bright red and looks away sharply. He’s only marginally comforted by the fact that Clover’s cheeks had gone pink too, despite the self-satisfied grin he’d thrown Qrow’s way.

“Aurora,” Merriweather calls after a moment. “I’m all done.”

“Thank you!” Aurora replies, then pats Clover’s hand and rushes over to take Merriweather’s notepad. “Mr. Branwen, is it? My goodness, you really are all legs. Clover’s a lucky man, no?”

“I get that a lot,” Clover calls from the counter, mischievous.

“Don’t you have clothes to try on or something?” Qrow demands. Clover laughs, and Qrow wishes he hadn’t worn so many layers today. Isn’t this boutique a little warm?

Aurora suddenly claps her hands together and exclaims, “Oh! That’s true! Merriweather, be a dear and fetch Clover’s order from the back. Mr. Branwen, please follow me. I think I have a few things that will fit you closely, since we don’t quite have time to make something from scratch.” Qrow barely has time to step off the pedestal before Aurora starts pushing him towards the dressing rooms. This woman seems extraordinarily strong for a civilian, he thinks.

Aurora ends up wrangling him into…some sort of  _ contraption, _ which Qrow isn’t too sure about wearing. Still, Aurora insists she knows what she’s talking about, and that she knows Clover’s taste enough to say that he’ll approve, which in reality shouldn’t matter at all but very much does. She also puts him in cropped leather boots with a heel, which Qrow says makes him far too tall, but Aurora insists about those, too.

After she takes in the shirt a bit and lets out the pants legs a lot (and she swears, truly, she’s never poked someone with pins so many times in her life, really, it’s usually not this difficult) Qrow is dismissed back into the main lobby. Clover is already waiting at the counter, fingers hooked into the hanger of a garment bag that rests over his shoulder.

“Fits like a dream, Aurora,” he compliments.

“Wonderful!” Aurora beams, then pouts. “You should’ve let me see.”

“I’ll take a picture when I’m all done up,” Clover promises. “Now, I know this is a last minute rush order—” 

“Oh,” Aurora waves her hand, “You know working with you is always a pleasure, darling. No extra charge.”

“Aurora, this isn’t my money,” Clover reminds her. “And even if it was, you know I don’t want you giving me discounts.”

She sighs. “Ah, very well...6000 Lien, then.”

“Six—” Qrow starts, shocked silent again when Clover just hands over the Lien like it’s nothing.  _ Academy money, it’s Academy money. _ Qrow can’t imagine spending this much on party clothes just for kicks. 

“Come by in three days to pick it up,” Aurora says cheerfully. “Mr. Branwen, lovely to meet you. You two make the most adorable couple.”

“Thanks,” Qrow says weakly, and Clover ushers him out the door.

In the car (and Qrow still isn’t used to being driven everywhere, never will be), Clover says casually, “You can break up with me when this is all over.”

Qrow’s so startled by this that he laughs. “What?”

“You didn’t look too pleased back there,” Clover points out, expression a careful sort of guarded, even as he tosses an arm over the back of the seat as if to play at openness. “When Aurora called us partners.”

Qrow eyes the space beside him and wishes Atlas escort vehicles were a little bit smaller. “It’s not that,” he says after a moment, and tries not to think on it too terribly long. “It’s just…that was a lot of money just to go play dress up for a few hours. Feels wasteful, what with everything we’ve got going on.”

Some of the tension in Clover’s shoulders falls away, and he hums thoughtfully. “I don’t disagree.”

Here is where Qrow remembers that Aurora’s shop is apparently Clover’s favorite for dresswear, and he rushes to say, “I didn’t mean you’re wasteful. It just…feels like Atlas’s money could be better put into Mantle.”

Clover offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re right,” he says, then sighs and glances out the window. Qrow follows his gaze; the streets they pass are clean, orderly, well-groomed and exuberantly wealthy. “Unfortunately,” he goes on, “the people with power in Atlas have money. And if you want them to listen to you, you have to look like you have money, too.”

“You’re reading off my top five reasons to hate Atlas, buddy,” Qrow mutters.

Clover chuckles. “That’s fair,” he admits. “That’s fair.”

* * *

“I hate this,” Qrow wheezes.

“Do  _ not  _ let up on him,” Weiss orders, supervising front and center in the middle of Qrow’s room. “Any looser and it’ll look frumpy.”

“You got it,” Yang chirps, then braces her foot against the chair Qrow’s leaning on and pulls his corset strings harder. Qrow swears.

Ruby, who’s sitting in the chair so it won’t tip over, tilts her head back and grins at him. “Uncle Qrow, you’re gonna look so handsome!” she cheers, nearly socking him in the nose.

“Will it matter if I’m dead?” Qrow rasps.  _ “Alright, _ Yang, enough, I can’t breathe.”

Yang glances back at Weiss for approval. Weiss taps her chin thoughtfully, then nods, and Yang ties the strings as Qrow exhales in relief.

“Hop up, Ruby,” Blake says. “Qrow, sit.”

“What now?” Qrow complains, taking a seat as Ruby bounces out of the way. The corset back prevents him from slouching, which makes him hate it twice as much already.

“You can’t go out dressed like that with no makeup on,” Blake says firmly.

“I absolutely can.”

“Aren’t you going out with Clover?” Yang asks pointedly.

Qrow freezes, cheeks warming, and this gives Blake the opportunity to advance on him with eyeliner. “It’s not a date,” he objects, resigning himself to it and shutting his eyes. “It’s a mission.”

“Uh huh.”

“It is! I don’t want to go to this thing.”

“Be still,” Blake chides.

Qrow huffs and tries not to let his eye twitch. To his right, he hears rummaging around his dresser. Ruby asks, “Uncle Qrow, where are those black studs you wear sometimes?”

“You guys are making too big a deal out of this,” Qrow sighs.

“Trust me when I say you’re going to be among the snobbiest of elite tonight,” Weiss says with an air of bitterness. “You’re going to want to look as nice as possible.”

“What do you guys think of the dangly one?” Ruby asks.

“Oh, for sure,” Yang answers.

“Acceptable,” Weiss says.

Qrow mutters something under his breath as Blake flicks mascara over his lashes. When she pauses, he blinks, and Blake turns his chin this way and that, judging her work before giving a satisfied nod. 

“Put these on,” Ruby says, appearing over his shoulder to drop earrings in his hand. She pauses and curiously tugs at unexplained buttons there until Qrow swats her away and sighs, rising to stand at his mirror and do as he’s told. He puts a stud in his left ear and an upside-down cross in his right, and pauses to look himself over: the corset vest is double layered, black and accented with red, with silver buttons and a low cut neckline that almost makes Qrow wonder if he’s dressed appropriately for the occasion. It’s patterned with swirling flowers that shine just so in the light, and fitted snugly over a red tie and a silken black button-up that perfectly matches the shade of his slacks. Finally, he thinks,  _ finally  _ he must be ready— 

“Hold it,” Weiss orders.

“What  _ now?” _ Qrow demands.

Weiss tilts her head at him, squinting. The rest of the girls mimic the action. Finally, she says, “Get rid of the tie.”

“I just spent fifteen minutes putting it on!” Qrow objects.

“It’s too…” Weiss waves dismissively, “not your style. Besides, you’re going out with Clover. You don’t need a tie for that.”

Qrow flushes dark. “It’s not a date,” he insists, even as he yanks the tie out of his  _ extremely compressive vest  _ and begrudgingly pulls it from his collar. A collective exasperated sigh answers him. 

“Undo the top two buttons,” Yang suggests.

“Maybe he should wear the necklace again?” Blake says thoughtfully.

By the Brothers. “No more jewelry,” Qrow says firmly. “I’m not putting on or taking off anything else. You guys are going to make me late.”

“But Uncle Qrowww,” Ruby cries, hanging on his arm as he heads for the door.

“You’re wrinkling my shirt, pipsqueak,” Qrow says, just as Weiss shrieks, “Ruby!”

Getting down the hall is…an ordeal. By the time Qrow makes it past the courtyard and to the waiting limousine, the girls have adjusted his hair no less than three times, Weiss has made him tuck the laces of his vest back in twice, and he’s swatted Yang away from his collar buttons enough for Qrow to lose count.

“Alright,” Qrow barks, fed up. “Enough. I’m dressed. I’m not getting any prettier.”

Ruby flits up to his shoulder and smooths a stray hair on top of his head. Qrow glares at her, and Ruby only offers him a sheepish grin.

Qrow’s  _ this  _ close to cracking and smiling at her when James and Winter step out into the courtyard, the picture of military professionalism in their uniforms and their neat postures. Winter, as always when faced with the prospect of being in the same general vicinity as Qrow, looks mildly annoyed, and James looks faintly amused, which, to Qrow, seems odd given that he’s here to send off a mission.

And behind them, stepping out into the courtyard with a slow, easy grace, is Clover, and Qrow’s world seems to slow to a stop.

Clover is dressed in a floor length gown of green tulle, the sleeves detached cuffs around his arms and the neckline a sweetheart cut that shows off his collarbones, lined with red lace poppies of a familiar shade that leaves Qrow feeling terribly caught. Gold wire earrings twined in the shape of a gem hang by his jaw, a gold cuff bracelet replacing his gloves. His curls are set neatly on top of his head, his eyes painted to match the dress and his lashes almost devastatingly full, his lips a sweet cherry red.

Qrow knows the kids are staring at him in obvious amusement, but he still can’t seem to shake his speechlessness.

“I hope you’re familiar enough with the hacking software we put on your Scroll,” James says, jolting Qrow out of his stupor. “It’s one we had customized specifically for this, so if something goes wrong, just destroy it or leave it behind.”

“Uh,” Qrow answers, cheeks flushing pink, “Yeah, I got it.” He hears the girls snicker behind him and turns to throw them a glare, which means that his only warning for Clover stepping close to him is the click of high heels on pavement. Qrow turns and immediately fushes darker at his proximity, eyes flitting up and down Clover’s form before resolutely settling on the man’s face.

“You look nice,” Clover says, sweet about it, voice low like he only cares for Qrow to hear.

The compliment only sends his thoughts skittering. “Thanks,” he says dumbly, then, in a rush, “You look—” before he stops short, searching for the right words.

Clover blushes and it’s the prettiest thing Qrow’s ever seen. He feels like all his past experience, all his wit and finesse, have abruptly left him. “Too much?” Clover asks, shyly lifting a hand to his mouth before pausing, as if remembering there’s color there.

“No!” Qrow says quickly, to the chorus of more snickering. “No, you look...you look amazing. Really.”

Clover brightens, and then, as if the compliment had emboldened him, his smile turns a little sly. “I have something for you,” he says, and it’s here that Qrow finally takes notice of the red silk draped over his arm. Clover unfolds it and reveals a low swooping cape, which he swings up and over Qrow’s head to pin to his shoulders.

So that’s what the buttons were for.

“I asked Aurora to make this for you,” Clover says, smoothing the fabric over Qrow’s shoulders before he meets his eyes and grins. “Didn’t want to cover up the back of your vest, but I figured Qrow Branwen shouldn’t be going anywhere without a cape.”

Qrow blinks, stunned. “…You bought this?”

“Mmhmm.” Clover eyes him a minute more, then reaches up and unbuttons Qrow’s shirt collar. “There,” he murmurs.

Yang snorts quietly, and a few mixed giggles follow. Qrow doesn’t think he’s ever been so red in his life.

James clears his throat. “If that’s all,” he presses, “and no one has anymore questions, it’s best you get going.”

“You’ll want to get into his office sooner rather than later,” Winter adds. “He’ll be busy greeting guests and making appearances during the early stages of the ball.”

Clover turns to face them and nods. “We’ll keep you both updated,” he says, then salutes sharply and climbs into the limo, gathering up the skirt of his dress as he goes.

“Have fun, Uncle Qrow!” Ruby says brightly. All the girls are waving at him and looking rather smug. Qrow waves back and ducks his head, unwilling to bear the looks of  _ we told you so,  _ and climbs into the limo after Clover.

Being in the little space with him doesn’t help much. As the limousine pulls off, Clover carefully smooths his fingers over the hair behind his ear and crosses his legs neatly. Gold d’Orsay heels peek out from beneath the tulle, the bands around his ankles closing in a bow pinned in place by a tiny clover. Qrow suddenly realizes why Aurora had insisted that his boots have a heel, and then he realizes that he’s thinking a little too hard about Clover’s calves, and he coughs and looks away.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Clover says, “We won’t have to mingle too terribly long, I think.”

Qrow glances back over at him and finds him looking a little too pleased with himself. “You think so?” he asks after a moment.

“Mmhmm. We’ll have to greet some members of the council, at least.” Clover pauses, then says gently, “There’ll be a lot of wine.”

Qrow blinks, then swallows and looks away. “I’ll be alright,” he says quietly.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Qrow combs his hand through his hair, then frowns, realizing he’d just ruined all the girls’ work. He sighs. “Not like we’re actually here to have fun, anyways.”

“I don’t know,” Clover says, then tosses him a wink. “We might have a little fun.”

Qrow feels a smile creeping over his face. Clover has a strange way of making him forget about the stressful things, a charm about him that makes him feel almost…optimistic. “Maybe,” he allows, and some terrible kind of delight blooms in his chest at the chuckle he gets in response.

* * *

“Brothers help me,” Qrow mutters under his breath.

Clover laughs, and Qrow pries spiteful eyes away from Jacques’s many overdressed visitors to offer his hand. Clover takes it, eyeing him with interest as he climbs out of the car, then smooths his hands over his dress to straighten out the material. Qrow’s struck by how gorgeous he is a second time. “Try not to look like you want to die too much,” he teases. “We  _ are  _ supposed to be a happy couple, you know.”

“What are couples if not two people who love to talk shit about everyone else in the room?” Qrow asks dryly, pacified by the second laugh he gets for his efforts. Were it anyone else, Qrow might think he was being made fun of.

“If we work fast, we can be in and out within an hour,” Clover muses, eyes flitting over the grand manor. “The General wants me to talk with some of the council members present, see where they stand on the supplies we’re using for Amity. You just have to stick around long enough to make an appearance.”

“Go in, establish dominance as the hottest two here, get the hell out,” Qrow lists off. “Got it.”

“That’s not  _ exactly  _ the plan, but sure,” Clover snorts, then offers Qrow his arm. “Shall we?”

Qrow looks him over a moment longer—he considers the way the dress fits around Clovers chest, the way his bare shoulders are dusted with pale freckles, the way he looks fit to burst out of the cuff sleeves—then takes his arm in one hand and sticks the other in his pocket. “Lead the way,” he says resignedly, though partly only because he’s desperately trying not to think too much about every place their bodies touch.

Inside is just as terrible as Qrow expected. No one looks up with any kind of obviousness, but Qrow can still feel eyes on him the minute he walks in the door. Another thing he hates about rich people: the way they size each other up, the way they glance over every other person in the room to see how big of a threat they are, no different from the slummiest streets or darkest back alleys in Mistral. He feels almost as on edge here; only difference is, he probably won’t get stabbed on Jacques Schnee’s pretty marble floors.

“Ah, Captain Ebi.”

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Jacques, good to see you,” Clover says cheerfully, false charm dialed up to eleven. “I have to say, this is one of your lovelier balls.”

Jacques approaches them with an untouched champagne in hand, mouth pressed into a thin smile betrayed by the annoyance in his eyes. As usual, he’s dressed in stark white. Qrow briefly entertains thoughts of convenient misfortune, then thinks about Clover’s delicate tulle dress and quickly cuts that thought off. Jacques says, “I certainly can’t agree…with all the sanctions in place, profits have been…disappointing, so I was hardly able to go all out for the decor.”

Clove’s smile tightens. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m certain hardly anyone can tell the difference.”

“Yes, well,” Jacques says, mask of friendliness slipping a bit as his eyes settle on Qrow. “And, Mr. Branwen, is it? I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

Qrow tries not to scowl too deeply as Jacques offers his hand to shake, then takes it with extreme reluctance. “Pleasure,” he says, in a way that implies it very much isn’t.

“Yes, I believe you were present when my dear Weiss was arrested, weren’t you?” Jacques goes on. “I have to say, I’m not sure how good of an influence you are on my daughter.”

Guilt lands hard in Qrow’s chest—he remembers with a dull pang that it was Weiss and Ruby who’d dragged him from the cellar at Brunswick Farm, drunk and grieving and uncooperative—and then hot anger follows after it quick. He squeezes Jacques’s hand tighter, takes morbid pleasure in the pain that flashes across the man’s face. “Yeah, well, I can’t even imagine what great role models she gave up when she ran away from home,” he says, sickly sweet, then drops Jacques’s hand and makes a show of wiping his hand on his slacks before putting it back in his pocket. “But we won’t keep you any longer, Schnee. I’m sure you have plenty of important guests to greet besides little ol’ us.” He steps away then, tugging on Clover’s arm. “Come on, Cloves, I want to try one of those little sandwiches.”

Clover goes without further prodding, oddly quiet until Qrow pulls him aside to one of the guest tables. In his haste to get away from Jacques, Qrow quickly yanks out a chair for him and then sits down at his side, scowl settling free on his face now. After a moment, he glances up to see Clover’s reaction.

Clover’s almost shaking, covering his mouth carefully to avoid smearing his lipstick while his eyes practically dance. He ducks his head, eyes falling shut then, and a near silent squeak of laughter escapes him.

Qrow feels himself grinning. “What?” he asks.

“We’re two feet in the door and you sass the host,” Clover snickers.

“He had it coming.”

“He sure did,” Clover laughs. “Shit. You really want some food?”

Qrow glances over longingly at a waiter who passes by with a tray of sandwiches. “Much as I’d love a snack, I’m not sure I can eat in this thing,” he admits, tugging at his vest.

Clover’s smile turns a little sly, and he leans over to tug at the neckline of Qrow’s shirt, exposing his collarbones a bit more. “I guess the girls helped you?” he asks, and if he notices the color that floods Qrow’s cheeks, he doesn’t mention it.

“That obvious?” Qrow asks, shoulders hunching in embarrassment.

“They were all standing around like they were seeing you off to prom,” Clover says, “and uh…” His eyes fall a little lower, far past Qrow’s jaw. “I’ve worn a corset vest before, and you don’t get these as…snug without a little assistance.”

_ Hell,  _ Qrow thinks helplessly, and for a second feels as though he might as well be naked. “I thought they’d pop me like a balloon,” he confesses, happiness blossoming in his chest when Clover laughs again. 

“Can I offer you gentlemen anything?” a waiter asks suddenly, stopping near their table.

Qrow glances up at the tray he’s carrying, and suddenly all that happiness drains from him just as quickly as the color in his cheeks. On the tray are glasses filled with dark red wine, sloshing just a bit as the waiter comes to a standstill. Qrow feels his mouth go dry.

“I don’t suppose you have anything non-alcoholic?” he rasps.

The waiter blinks in surprise. “Oh, um…I’m certain we do. I’ll send someone your way shortly.”

Qrow nods, and the waiter takes his leave. It’s painfully quiet for a bit; then, under the table, Clover reaches over and takes Qrow’s hand. “You alright?” he asks softly.

Qrow looks up sharply, then drops his gaze. After a moment, he squeezes Clover’s hand. “Yeah,” he says, and finds it truer than he’d originally intended. He’d said no, he’d resisted, and Clover was here at his side, hanging onto him like an anchor. “Yeah,” he says again, meaning it this time, “I am.”

Clover meets his eyes and Qrow is struck dumb by the tenderness in his expression. “Alright then,” he says, and if he notices the color that floods Qrow’s cheeks, he doesn’t mention it. “We should probably go find some of the council members. I think I saw Councilwoman Camilla on the way in.”

“Maybe I should go to uh…” Qrow trails off, squirming. “You know. Do my bit. I’m not going to be of any use talking to these people.”

“It might look suspicious if you walk off without me immediately,” Clover says thoughtfully, pursing his lips. They’re so  _ red. _ Qrow thinks about kissing the color off of them and shakes the idea by pinching his own thigh. “It’d probably be best if you saw at least a few of them.”

Qrow opens his mouth to object and is cut off by swelling music; he glances back at the grand hall to find guests gathering in the open space to dance. It’s a stuffy sort, slow and a bit stiff, not the kind that Qrow would consider fun or even very intimate, but for just a moment, he wants—

Clover’s chair scrapes against the floor, and then he clears his throat. Qrow turns towards him again and finds Clover standing next to him and offering his hand. “May I have this dance?” he asks.

Qrow blinks at him, a flush creeping over his face as he realizes he’s been caught with his mouth hanging open. “Sure,” he finally manages, taking Clover’s hand, and Clover’s smile makes his heart flutter.

He can feel a million eyes on him as Clover pulls him to the dance floor. He wants to focus entirely on the way Clover’s hand slides over his waist and his own settles on Clover’s bare shoulder, wants to be entirely occupied with the way Clover draws him so close that there’s barely any space between their chests. He watches multiple sets of eyes rove over Clover and then over him, and feels intensely that he doesn’t belong in this setting. As Clover leads him into the first steps, Qrow murmurs, “You’ve got a lot of admirers tonight.”

It’s not untrue. Beyond Qrow being convinced that people can see right through him and his general discomfort, some of those eyes linger a little too long for his liking. It makes a little spark of…something spring up between his ribs. Not jealousy—well,  _ maybe  _ jealousy. Would it be jealousy if Clover was here on his arm for real? Would it be pride if this wasn’t an assignment?

Clover glances around, apparently unashamed at meeting people’s gazes. After a moment, his eyes settle on Qrow again, a sly grin at his mouth. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I think a lot of them are looking at you.”

“Me,” Qrow says flatly.

“You look really good, Qrow,” Clover says earnestly.

Qrow feels himself go pink again. “Thanks,” he says, and after a missed beat, he manages, “So do you.”

Now it’s Clover who flushes, and it’s so starkly beautiful that Qrow’s struck silent by it. “I wasn’t sure you’d like it,” he confesses.

It’s spoken with just enough insecurity to imply a past rejection. Some insistent honesty blooms in Qrow suddenly enough that he blurts, “You look gorgeous, Cloves. I mean it. I thought you…” He pauses, bites his tongue for fear of saying too much. “I think it really suits you,” he says finally.

Clover’s expression melts into something so fond that Qrow almost feels startled. He casts his gaze away out of pleasant embarrassment, and in that moment, Clover spins them around in a wide, sweeping circle that sends another flutter to Qrow’s belly, despite it apparently being scripted, if the other couples around them were anything to go by.

“Thank you,” Clover murmurs when they’ve fallen back into a more rhythmic step; then, perhaps to save the both of them from any more terrible openness, he compliments, “You’re a good dancer.”

“I’m just following you,” Qrow admits, then chews his lip and glances around again. He can still feel the prick of other stares. He lowers his voice. “You don’t think anyone suspects us, do you?”

“If they do, it’s not like they want to do Jacques any favors,” Clover says.

“Maybe not, but…” Qrow frowns. A woman glances at them across the room, and he could swear he’d seen her talking to Jacques earlier. “I mean, you think they can tell we’re faking?” 

“I think everyone here’s a little phony to be thinking of anything between you and me as fake,” Clover muses. He leans a bit closer. “Hey. You’re thinking too hard. Just look at me for a while.”

Qrow feels like he’s burning. That’s the problem, actually: he wants to look at Clover too much. He feels like this often enough without Clover being all dressed to the nines, without the painted lips and the swooping eyelashes and the low cut pattern of flowers beneath his collarbones. He wonders if it’s plainly obvious to onlookers, how much he’s yearning for this, and in turn he keeps wondering if that yearning is a dead-giveaway that this whole couple thing is an act.

“Should we kiss?” he asks without thinking, and immediately feels intensely foolish. “For believability,” he adds quickly, scrambling to explain himself. “People don’t like PDA, so at least it’d make them stop looking at us so much. I don’t want to be noticed when we break for—”

Clover dips closer and kisses him then, a sweet and chaste little press of lips that would seem perfectly natural if not for the way it completely knocks the wind out of Qrow. His heart leaps, a fluttery surprise settling in his stomach, a rush of heat under his collar. He blinks, stunned and silent, mouth hanging open and a dark blush splashed over his cheeks.

As if only just realizing what he’d done, Clover’s cheeks turn red enough to match the flowers on his dress, and he stammers, “Um…sorry, I guess I should’ve—”

Qrow surges forward and kisses him again, feels Clover go still for the briefest moment before he melts into it, the hand at Qrow’s waist coming to rest a little lower on his back. Clover’s lips are soft, the lipstick adding the texture of velvet, and there’s something faintly hungry in the way his mouth moves against Qrow’s that sends an excited little tremor down Qrow’s spine. His hand drifts from Clover’s shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers smoothing over the short hair there, his heart thundering at the easy way they fit against each other’s chests.

It’s only after they part that Qrow actually realizes they’ve stopped dancing. He feels heat rise to his cheeks again, more out of desire than embarrassment now, and it’s got everything to do with the little smear of red at the edge of Clover’s bottom lip, with open, honest affection there in his eyes.

Qrow clears his throat and glances around; just as he’d thought, most had looked away. “Mission accomplished,” he murmurs, relieved that his voice comes out steady. Clover chuckles softly and pulls them back into motion; Qrow grins a little, then lifts his hand from Clover’s shoulder to motion at his own mouth. “You’ve got a little…” 

Clover grins right back. “So do you.”

“Can’t imagine whose fault that is.” Qrow pauses, brain finally returning at least partly to their mission. “Maybe now’s a good time? You slip off to the men’s room, I disappear for a little air…”

Clover’s brows go up, as if just remembering it all himself. He nods. “Good a time as any. If we’re lucky, Jacques will see me talking to someone when I get back, and I can distract him from potentially leaving.”

“‘If we’re lucky’,” Qrow repeats, scoffing.

Clover laughs. “Alright, alright, poor choice of words. I’ll do my best. You be careful, alright?”

“I will,” Qrow promises, and then, feeling daring, he steals another kiss. Clover lets out a little gasp so quiet that Qrow would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been so close, putting a hand up to his mouth as Qrow withdraws, their fingers still laced until they’re too far apart to reach.

Qrow moseys into the adjacent halls, past a few gossiping guests who’d just stepped out to speak in hushed tones away from prying ears. They barely spare him a glance as he walks by; Qrow would bet money that a fair share of them had wandered through Jacques’s estate and stolen a thing or two. After he passes them, he rubs his knuckle over his bottom lip. It comes away faintly red, and Qrow feels warm and giddy all over again, a pleasantly embarrassed grin settling insistently on his face.

The halls are fairly empty, all the staff in Jacques’s house preoccupied with catering and serving. Qrow has the layout of the house memorized, having gone over the floorplans in detail with James more times than he cared to count. He pivots on his heel and turns down different halls to hide when he hears footsteps, careful not to let the heels of his boots click on the marble floors too loudly.

Jacques’s office door is almost grotesquely grand. Qrow scowls at it for some time before crouching and lifting his pants leg to tug two thin lockpick tools out of his garters. Ordinarily, he’d just kick the door in, but...well. Stealth.

The office itself is just as exuberantly wealthy as the door. Qrow slips inside and shuts the door behind him, scanning the room carefully for any evidence of possible sensor mounts or tripwires. But the office seems clear…too clear, which means that either Jacques is setting some kind of trap or he’s far too confident. Qrow would bet on the latter, but he couldn’t be too careful, either.

He skirts Jacques’s desk and pulls his Scroll out of his pocket. The screen comes to life, and with a few swipes and input commands, the spyware seeks out Jacques’s computer and starts eating away at the firewalls.

Qrow chews his lip thoughtfully(faintly tastes lipstick). Somehow, this is going too smoothly. Good or bad luck aside, something always went wrong on these types of missions. No way he was getting out of this with a kiss  _ and  _ every bit of intel he’d been sent for unscathed. Was that paranoid to think, or something born of experience? Did Clover ever have missions that went this smoothly— 

As if on cue, his Scroll beeps softly, hacking halted. 

Qrow scowls at it as if it’d called him something rude. Streams of binary code flashes across the screen, frozen in place. Qrow taps the screen curiously, and then the code and all related commands vanished, replaced by an elegant cursive  _ ‘W’.  _

He doesn’t know what that means, but he’d bet an arm and a leg that it isn’t good.

A few moments later, as Qrow’s desperately trying to get the Scroll to respond to him, he hears the doorknob jiggle. He looks up sharply, searches the room wildly for a hiding spot before shifting and flying up to the chandelier. The glass chimes quietly under his weight as he presses himself down as low as he can, the noise just barely masked by the sound of the door opening and shutting, and a woman tiptoes into the room.

Qrow pauses. The woman is tall, elegantly dressed, older than him by a few years at least, though the exhaustion and quiet misery on her face must age her some. There’s a little sway in her step that’s too achingly familiar, and there’s a bottle of liquor in her hand, half-empty.

She’s the spitting image of Weiss and Winter. Qrow feels a little pang in his chest.

The woman—Willow, if he remembers right—hurries over to Jacques’s desk and sets the bottle down there…right next to the Scroll. Qrow swears inwardly, leaning over the edge of the chandelier to watch her, but the woman doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. Apparently thinking it’s Jacques’s, she ignores it in favor of opening his computer and trying to turn it on. When a locked screen meets her, she pauses, shoulders jolting ever so slightly as if she’s taken aback.

So Jacques  _ is _ hiding something.

The chandelier chimes softly again as Qrow leans a little too far over the edge, and he flinches so hard it ruffles his feathers. Willow looks up sharply, their eyes meeting for just a split second before she screams.

A lot happens all at once: Qrow darts from the chandelier and Willow grabs the nearest thing to throw at him and, luckily enough, it just happens to be the Scroll. Qrow squawks and dodges it, and the glass shatters. Willow’s hands light up with all too familiar black glyphs; desperate to evade capture, Qrow swoops down at her, cawing loudly and pulling at her hair when she shrieks and ducks. Willow runs towards the door and flees into the hall, but before she manages to trap him in the office, Qrow swan dives for the entrance and takes off through the hall, Willow yelling after him all the while.

_ Fuck yes,  _ he thinks victoriously, followed by  _ Oh, shit!  _ when he nearly flies into another glyph. 

Well. Not like Qrow didn’t enjoy crashing parties.

The guests lingering in the halls shriek as he flies by and into the foyer, pulling up short high above peoples heads.  _ Come on, come on,  _ he thinks, desperately searching the room for green. Various shouts rise from the guests: “A bird!” “Get it out!” “Someone shoot it or something!” and then a horrified, “No!” 

There.

Clover’s arms are already open by time Qrow crashes into his chest, panting and relieved. Clover cradles him tightly for a moment, hunched over him protectively until some of the commotion dies down. Qrow peeks up at him and chitters softly, his closest approximation to a laugh in this form, and Clover’s eyes glitter with amusement.

“It’s just scared,” he says to the onlookers, and soothingly smooths Qrow’s feathers to prove it. “I’ll take it out to the garden.” He nods towards one guest, the councilwoman he’d pointed out earlier, and Jacques, that weasel, standing next to her. “Councilwoman Carmilla, pleasure talking to you. Jacques, lovely party. If either of you see Qrow, tell him I stepped out, thanks.”

“Certainly,” the councilwoman stammers, staring at him, or rather, at Qrow.

Jacques only clears his throat and straightens his tie. Qrow notices with no small amount of delight that there’s a blotch of champagne spilled across his white suit jacket. “Of course,” Jacques says tightly, and Clover all but bolts for the door.

Outside Jacques's atrociously large front doors, Clover hangs left and carries Qrow into Jacques’s neat and over-pruned garden. He glances around to see if anyone’s watching, then holds out his hands. Qrow hops out of them and shifts, hair a bit ruffled in all the commotion, but otherwise still looking innocently put together.

He double checks to make sure no one’s looking or approaching, then meets Clover’s eyes. After a beat of silence, they both burst into laughter.

“That could’ve gone better,” Qrow snorts.

“You’re telling me,” Clover snickers. He hikes up his skirt a little and balances carefully on one foot while he takes off each heel. Qrow tries hard not to stare at his legs. “Did you get anything?”

Tearing his gaze from Clover’s calves, Qrow sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “No. I think we underestimated how much security Jacques has. I got locked out quick.”

Clover frowns as he straightens, hooking fingers around the straps of his shoes. “No civilian tech should have better security than the academy,” he says thoughtfully. 

“There was a big swirly ‘W’ on the screen,” Qrow offers, “if that helps.”

Clover’s eyes go wide, then his brows knit as he casts his gaze aside to think. “No, it couldn’t be…” he murmurs.

“What couldn’t?”

“That sounds like Arthur Watt’s calling card,” Clover explains. He rubs his arm, taps his fingers thoughtfully against his bicep. “He was a scientist for the military a while back, but he’s dead now. Someone must’ve gotten a hold of his work. It’s the only thing that could rival ours, considering he wrote both.”

“Damn,” Qrow mutters.

“Well,” Clover says resignedly, “We did our best.” He pauses, hesitating, then adds sheepishly, “I still had fun. With you.”

Qrow blinks, then flushes and tries in vain to bite back a thrilled grin. He’s still thinking about that kiss, about the way they fit together. He thinks he’d like to go dancing with Clover again when they have a night off, on purpose this time. “Never thought I’d say this about a ball, but…me too.”

Clover grins. His lipstick’s been fixed, but it’s not quite perfect, and something about that tiny detail makes Qrow want to smear it all over again. And the reminder of red drags his gaze a little lower still, down to those poppies along the neckline of Clover’s dress. As if perfectly aware of where Qrow’s eyes are wandering, Clover turns a little pink and glances away bashfully, then looks up again and asks, “You wanna get out of here?”

“Gods, yes,” Qrow says in relief, and it hits him a hair late that Clover’s wording had been awfully purposeful.

Clover laughs, then hops from foot to foot a few times before he moves towards the courtyard again. “Well, let’s hurry up,” he says. “This grass is freezing.”

Qrow snorts and follows after him a little while. He watches Clover gather up his skirt in one hand, showing off a slip of his ankle, and he decides that if he had to be put through all that bullshit, he at least deserves a little bit more fun before they head back to Atlas.

“Up you go,” he says, wrapping an arm around Clover’s waist and sweeping the other under his legs.

Clover yelps in delighted surprise and wraps his arm around Qrow’s neck, heels hanging there over Qrow’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“You look ridiculous hopping around like that,” Qrow answers, which isn’t at all true, and he’d thought it was cute, actually, but Clover just grins and doesn’t argue further, so he supposes that excuse will do.

The limo is waiting out at the end of the courtyard, one among many. Qrow gingerly sets Clover down and opens the door for him, and Clover tosses him a wink before climbing inside.  _ Hell,  _ Qrow thinks, and climbs in after him.

Inside, Clover drops his heels into the floor and tosses his arms over the back of the seats. Qrow watches him sit with his legs spread this time, apparently done being prim and proper for the evening. He likes the idea of Clover with bad manners. He says, “Hey, Cloves?”

Green eyes slide over to him. It sends a jolt of desire to Qrow’s stomach. “Mmhmm?” Clover answers, low in his throat.

Qrow opens his mouth, hesitates, then lets out an amused huff of breath. “You remember when you said I could break up with you after this was over?”

Clover’s gaze slides over him slowly, like he’s something to savor. “I remember,” he replies.

Qrow chews his lip, then slides closer. “What if I didn’t?” 

“I guess you’d have to kiss me again,” Clover says, the rumble in his voice an invitation all on its own.

_ Alright,  _ Qrow thinks, settles snugly against Clover’s side, cups the back of his neck, and pulls him into a kiss.

There’s less care this time, tender though it might still be. Qrow doesn’t have to worry about how much he’ll smear Clover’s makeup now. He presses down more firmly than he had at the ball, free hand drifting over Clover’s belly, feels Clover’s hand running over his chest until he has a grip on Qrow’s vest. Qrow’s heart flutters and he wonders if Clover can feel it, Clover slides his tongue between Qrow’s teeth and Qrow thinks he’s tripping into this too far and too fast.

He doesn’t put up a fight when Clover pushes him down to the seats, nonetheless.

Clover straddles him and breaks away from Qrow’s mouth to kiss down his throat so suddenly that Qrow has to wonder if he’d planned for this to happen the whole time. He tilts his chin up to give the man space, groans and feels the light stickiness of matte red along his skin. He hikes up Clover’s skirt just to run hands over strong thighs, kisses and suckles along Clover’s bare shoulder while Clover nips at his jaw.

Up front, the driver clears his throat loudly. Clover just kisses at the edge of Qrow’s lips and reaches up to slide the dividing window shut without looking, and Qrow laughs against his mouth.

By the time the car comes to a stop, Clover’s poor dress has enough wrinkles that Aurora might kill both of them for it. Qrow gasps quietly as Clover grinds against his lap, leans into another kiss at his jaw; caught with his hands on Clover’s ass, Qrow manages, “H-hey, wait—”

“What’s wrong?” Clover asks, breathless, drawing back enough just to speak.

“We’re at the academy.”

Clover waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, he prompts, “So?”

Qrow stares at him incredulously for a second, a grin spreading over his face. He has a feeling that if he allowed it, Clover would do just about anything he asked right here in the limo. “So…we could go inside?”

“I’m not following.”

“There’s  _ beds, _ Clover.”

Clover blinks. “Oh,” he says. Then, more urgently, “Oh!”

Qrow lets out a bark of laughter as Clover quickly climbs off his lap and snatches up his heels, then all but scrambles out of the car. Qrow follows after him leisurely, brushing off his vest as he stands and combing a hand through his hair, then laughs again as Clover grabs his wrist and pulls him towards the dorms.

Just inside the Academy doors, Qrow spots James coming towards them. “I saw your trackers coming back,” he calls as he approaches. “Did you—oh.”

“Not now, James,” Clover says impatiently, pushing past him and dragging a laughing Qrow into the elevator. 

“But did you—” James tries.

“No, and I’ll have a report in the morning,” Clover answers, pushing the button to his floor three times in quick succession.

“Night, Jimmy,” Qrow says cheerfully, throwing him a little salute just as the doors slide shut. Even in the blurry reflection of the elevator glass, Qrow can tell he looks an absolute mess. Clover does too, and it might be the sexiest Qrow’s ever seen him.  _ Yet.  _

And still, he hardly has time to take in the sight, because Clover presses back into his space and kisses him in the elevator, and in the halls, and all the way back to his room, and all the way through the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> Art on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seasomen/status/1312131025942663169?s=19) and [Tumblr](https://seasomen.tumblr.com/post/630899060486881280/i-think-it-really-suits-you-thank-you-day) by seasomen.


End file.
